


Dulce Et Decorum Est

by rmm55



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Developing Relationship, M/M, War, World War III
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rmm55/pseuds/rmm55
Summary: 25 February 1947The Prussian State which from early days has been a bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany has de facto ceased to exist. Guided by the interests of preservation of peace and security of peoples and with the desire to assure further reconstruction of the political life of Germany on a democratic basis, the Control Council enacts as follows:
The Prussian State together with its central government and all its agencies is abolished.
 
69 years later, Gilbert Beilschmidt is finally dying. Left weakened and bed-ridden for decades following the dissolution of his nation, he lives out his days by recording his memories of a well-lived life in a series of diaries addressed to the people he cares about. 
Ludwig has tried everything in his power to keep Gilbert alive. But with the memory of Prussia fading fast, what lengths will Ludwig have to go to in order to save his brother's life? Will the threat of war be enough to push the old Allied Forces into action, or will Ludwig have to plunge Europe back into the ages of world-wide war?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE - This is an edited and rewritten version of a story that has been previously posted on AO3. This story has gone through some much needed edits in order to make it the best it possibly can be!

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. 

 

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling 

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

 

In all my dreams before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

 

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie: _Dulce et decorum est  
_  


_Pro patria mori._

* * *

 

_It is one thing to know that death is inevitable; it is another thing entirely to feel it consuming you from the inside. The nation of Prussia is no more, and soon I will follow. It is truly a miracle that I have survived this long; I feel that I must thank Ludwig’s efforts at reviving my history for this. Sometimes, on the bleakest of nights, I feel a sensation in my heart akin to that of having citizens. I have convinced myself that this cannot be true. After all, who would be foolish enough to wish to revive the dangerous, warlike, havoc-causing Prussian nation?_

_I’ve never feared death before. But, death has never been permanent for me now. I feel myself weakening by the day. Perhaps I will be dead tomorrow. Surely, I will be dead by the end of the year. For now, I can walk; I can talk; I can function on an almost regular basis. It is those days of extreme weakness, of being spoon-fed and bathed and coddled by my little brother that are becoming more and more common that frighten me the most. I have always taken my independence for granted, always done what I wanted to, when I wanted to, and God-be-damned if I ever cared about the consequences._

_Weakness may frighten me more than death._

_Ludwig will cry. Feliciano will have to pick up the pieces. Maybe, just maybe, my death will make Ludwig understand how much he needs Feliciano. If there’s one good thing that comes out of my death, I hope that it is the two of them falling in love. I have never seen Ludwig as happy as he is when Feliciano is around, even if he doesn’t like to show it._

_Eliza won’t cry. She’s too strong for that. She’ll scream my name, curse every deity she can name, but she won’t cry. And if she does, Roderich will be there to comfort her._

_Roderich. Darling, prissy, beautiful Roderich. How I love you. I have loved you since the day I met you, though I did not understand it at first. I long to be with you, to feel the warm embrace of your love, but there are so many reasons for keeping my distance. If I were convinced of your inclination toward men, I might make a move; but, in truth, I am too frightened of rejection. Even now, on my deathbed, I could not bear the thought that you might think less of me for my affections. We were raised in an era where to be different was a crime; we lived through eras where to be gay was a crime, a sin, something to be ashamed of._

_Sometimes, on the bleakest nights, I am still ashamed of who I am, who I have become. Perhaps if I had learned my lessons sooner in life, I would not be in this situation. I am sure that Frederik is disappointed in me._

_Perhaps he will give me a scolding in Heaven, if I am lucky enough to go there. Though, with how much pain and suffering I have caused, I have no doubt that I am destined for Hell._

The pen pauses just above the paper. Gilbert’s teeth worry the cap; it is well-gnawed and nearly out of ink. He has been writing for days – recording every thought, every memory he has had since his nation was dissolved.

_Perhaps tomorrow will be better_ , he finishes.

A hand touches his shoulder and he jumps, slams the notebook shut.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Ludwig says. He takes a step back, giving Gilbert space.

“Damn it, West,” Gilbert snaps. “Give a guy some warning, won’t you?”

Ludwig’s hands are up, defensive, and he’s worrying his bottom lip in a way that tugs at Gilbert’s heart.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“You have a visitor.” Ludwig lowers his hands, but he’s still biting his bottom lip and his eyebrows are pinched together.

Gilbert sighs. “Who is it?” He’s not really in the mood to see anyone; the diary is still clutched in his hands, hopefully out of Ludwig’s sight. Dark thoughts still swirl around his head. And he’s tired, so tired. Every day seems harder than the last, and Gilbert just isn’t sure that he has the energy to keep going on.

“Roderich.”

Damn his faithless heart, thumping harder in his chest. He turns his face away, hoping that Ludwig can’t see how red his cheeks have gotten. His fingers clench and unclench against his legs.

“What’s he here for?” He tries to be casual about it, but he’s sure there’s a shake in his voice that Ludwig can hear. Ludwig, bless his soul, doesn’t even mention it.

“Just visiting, I believe. It _has_ been a while since he’s been here.”

“Two months,” Gilbert replies automatically, before cursing himself out in his head. Damn himself, why is he always so aware of Roderich?

“Feliciano is currently entertaining him downstairs,” Ludwig says, and Gilbert really ought to hug his brother for knowing when to ignore all of his many personal issues. “You might want to rescue him before Feliciano manages to talk his ear off.”

Gilbert snorts. “Wouldn’t that be a sight.” He slips the diary into a desk drawer and locks it, ignoring Ludwig’s tiny little frown. Stands up – his legs are a little shaky, like they normally are these days, but he manages to stand without Ludwig’s help – and follows Ludwig down the hallway. He takes his time on the stairs, legs threatening to give out at any moment, but Ludwig doesn’t offer to help and Gilbert is so damn grateful for it. He hates being coddled, hates feeling like he can’t even walk around his own home without help. Ludwig’s too busy with political work to take care of him 24/7 and Gilbert’s too proud to admit that he needs Ludwig’s help.

When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he has to take a moment to rest. Feliciano’s voice emanates bright and happy from the kitchen. He strains to hear Roderich’s voice, to prepare himself for the sight and sound of seeing the Austrian, but Roderich is either too quiet or not speaking.

“Feliciano is making dinner,” Ludwig explains. “When I came upstairs to get you, he was attempting to con Roderich into helping.”

Gilbert snorts again and takes a few unsteady steps toward the kitchen. He stumbles a little – Ludwig jumps into action immediately – but he manages to catch himself on the back of the couch.

“I’m fine,” he snaps at Ludwig, who’s hovering. “I’m fine, I swear.”

Ludwig understands; he backs off. But that damn little crease between his eyebrows refuses to go away, and Gilbert’s not sure he can take much more of this coddling, much more of this weakness. He’s the big brother, damn it – he’s supposed to look after Ludwig. It’s not supposed to be the other way around.

The kitchen is a mess – though, it was hard to expect otherwise when Feliciano had control of the kitchen. The little Italian was presiding over an enormous pot of spaghetti, ingredients strewn about in organized chaos. Roderich was off to the side, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms covered in flour. The lean muscles in Roderich’s arms catch Gilbert’s attention for longer than they should have – Roderich senses the attention and looks up. A faint smile crosses his lips when his eyes meet Gilbert’s; Gilbert’s heart leaps into his throat and he nearly stops breathing. Roderich is always breathtaking, but – but in this moment, he is relaxed, at ease, and happy. It makes him radiant.

“Gilbert!”

His concentration is broken when Feliciano launches himself into Gilbert’s arms. He nearly stumbles backwards, legs already tired from overuse, but Ludwig’s hand steadies him, helps him stand. The squirming Italian looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Did I hurt you? Oh, no! Are you not feeling well today? Will pasta help?”

Gilbert manages a shaky laugh. “I’m fine, Feli, you just surprised me. And yeah, pasta will probably help. I’m starving!”

Feliciano’s whole face lights up. “Great! I’m making lots of pasta! Everyone is coming over for dinner tonight!”

“Everyone?” He raises one eyebrow at Ludwig. “Exactly who is coming to dinner, Bruder?”

Ludwig actually manages to look sheepish. “Well, obviously Roderich is here. Lovino, Elizaveta, and Antonio are also making an appearance.”

“ _And_?” Gilbert asks, letting an edge creep into his voice.

“It’s a surprise.” Ludwig smirks at him. “You’ll find out in a little while.”

Gilbert rolls his eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out on my own.” There aren’t many people it would be, after all. Barely a handful of nations still bother to speak to him or check in on him anymore, and most of them were names that Ludwig had already mentioned. Of course, there was always Francis – but, Ludwig wouldn’t dare, not without talking to Gilbert first. There was Kiku, but he rarely ever made the long trip from Japan anymore, unless he happened to be on the continent for diplomatic reasons. And then there was –

Gilbert draws a blank. He can – he can picture a _face_ , but there’s no name to it, nothing that reminds him of who the person is. It’s a nation, he’s sure – after all, he doesn’t have any human friends, not anymore.

“Birdie,” he blurts out. “It’s Birdie, isn’t it?”

“Who’s Birdie?” Feliciano chirps.

The look on Ludwig’s face says it all. He crosses his arms and glares at Gilbert, pouting.

“When is he getting here?” Gilbert’s all but bursting with excitement now. He hasn’t seen Mattie in years, long enough that he’d nearly forgotten his favorite little Canadian. Though he spends a lot of time in Europe, working with Francis and Arthur, he rarely extends his visits to Germany. Though, if he had, Gilbert’s not entirely sure he would’ve noticed.

Feliciano scampers back to his pot of spaghetti and Gilbert goes back to staring at Roderich. The pianist’s long, delicate fingers are kneading a section of dough. He’s covered in dough – how, Gilbert’s not entirely sure – but there’s even a streak on his nose from pushing up his glasses. Behind square glasses, violet eyes are narrowed in stern concentration.

“Never knew dough was so interesting, Roddy,” Gilbert sneers before he can say something he’ll regret.

Roderich pauses to push his glasses back up, smearing more flour across the bridge of his nose. “Must you persist in calling me Roddy?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“May I inquire as to why?”

Gilbert smirks. “Because it pisses you off.”

Roderich sighs. “Must you always be so crass?”

“Must you always be so prissy?”

God, he could do this all day. Roderich’s got this pinched look on his face that he always gets when Gilbert is being obnoxious, but there’s a hint of a smile playing around his lips.

“I am not prissy.”

“Are, too.”

“Gilbert, please,” Ludwig interrupts. “None of us are drunk enough for this.”

Gilbert’s eyes light up. “Are we drinking tonight?”

“If you knock it off,” Ludwig shoots back.

“Impossible,” Roderich sighs. “We’ll all go home sober, at this rate.”

“Hey! I resent that!”

Roderich is spared by having to respond by the doorbell ringing. Gilbert briefly considers answering it – but Feliciano, who leapt from the kitchen the moment it rang, is much faster than him, and his legs are starting to wobble again. He slides into a chair at the table in the corner of the kitchen and tries to be discreet about massaging some of the pain away. Ludwig notices – of _course_ Ludwig notices – but it seems he’s otherwise in the clear.

“Gilbert!” Feliciano’s back with Eliza in tow. “Look who’s here!”

“Oi, look what the cat dragged in,” Gilbert quips. He makes a big show of lounging back in his chair. “Don’t suppose you’ve come to pay back that money you owe me?”

“Shove off, Gil, I don’t owe you any money.” Eliza high fives him instead of trying to hug him, and Gilbert fights down a wave of gratitude. Instead, he shrugs.

“Worth a shot. You never know what someone will believe.”

Eliza raises one delicate eyebrow. “Do you take me for an idiot? Or Roderich?”

“Excuse me?”

Gilbert and Eliza burst into laughter at Roderich’s affronted expression. He stares back and forth between them, offended, before cutting his loses and going back to the dough in front of him.

“All done!” Feliciano snatches the dough away before Roderich can touch it again. “Now, everyone out! No, not you, Luddy, you can stay. But everyone else has to leave!”

Gilbert stifles a groan and tries to collect himself while Roderich is distracted by cleaning himself off and Eliza is distracted by Roderich. Manages to stand without Ludwig’s help – it doesn’t _count_ if he clings to the back of the chair for support – and takes a few cautious steps toward the door. When his legs don’t give out, he walks with a little more confidence. Manages to make it all the way to the couch without stumbling or needed help – and, well, he’s pretty damn proud of it. He’s also pretty damn pathetic if he’s been reduced to the point of being proud of himself for walking from one room to another, but he decides not to dwell on that.

Feliciano rushes Eliza and Roderich from the kitchen. Eliza walks straight to Gil and settles down next to him on the couch, their thighs touching. She’s warm to the touch, and Gilbert flashes back to all the nights they spent as kids curled up next to each other in tents, two little nations against the world. Roderich sits in the chair by the fireplace, and Gilbert has to swallow his disappointment. The Austrian immediately immerses himself in the book Ludwig left on the table – some obscure historic title – and pays little attention to Gilbert.

Eliza nudges his shoulder and pointedly looks at Roderich. Gilbert shakes his head.

“Damn it, Gil,” she says out loud. “When are you ever going to grow up?”

“Never!” He plasters a smirk across his face, but it feels fake. “You know me – stuck in my old ways.”

“I’ll say,” Roderich mumbles.

Gilbert and Eliza exchange looks. Her eyes tell him without words that he’s being an idiot, and he can almost hear it in the exact tone of voice she would say it in. They’ve known each other for so long – they’ve long since mastered the art of saying words and sentences that have different meanings than what they might seem, of communicating without words, of being able to read each other better than anyone could ever hope.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Gilbert says loftily. “I’ll have you know that I just recently turned four hundred and ninety years.”

“How quaint. I’ll be turning one thousand thirty-nine years old this year.”

Eliza rolls her eyes. “Are you really competing to see who’s older right now? Isn’t that a little juvenile?”

“There is nothing about me that is juvenile,” Gilbert says with a straight face. He only manages to hold it for half a moment before he starts laughing. Roderich eyes him with distaste from over the edge of the book.

The doorbell rings again, interrupting his laughter. This time, Eliza gets up to open it. Antonio half dances through the door, backpack slung over his shoulder. His eyes light up when he sees Gilbert and he barrels straight into the living room to throw his arms around Gilbert’s shoulders.

“Amigo!” he exclaims. “It is so great to see you!”

“You, too, Toni.” He awkwardly pats the Spaniard on the back, unsure of what to do. It’s a relief when Toni finally pulls back, trademark grin plastered across his face. “What’s in the backpack?”

“Oh, this? It’s –” He glances at something over Gilbert’s head and cuts off. “It’s nothing! Just an overnight bag, you know, so I don’t have to travel tonight!”

“Uh, huh.” He stares at Toni, and the Spaniard actually squirms. “You’re a bullshit liar and you know that.”

Antonio sighs. “I know, amigo. But, it is a surprise. You will find out later!”

“What is with all these damn surprises tonight?” Gilbert exclaims. “Did I forget a holiday or something?”

“Can’t we just do something nice for you?” Ludwig says in his don’t-argue-with-me voice. Gilbert opens his mouth to argue, but Ludwig cuts him off. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Would any of you care for some refreshments?”

“Oh! Here!” Antonio rushes over to the kitchen door and hands Ludwig a backpack. “Try these first.”

“Alcohol!” Gilbert exclaims. “You brought me alcohol!”

“Damn it,” Ludwig mutters before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“I’m so awesome!” Gilbert announces. “No one can keep secrets from me! What kind of alcohol is it?”

“Your favorite.” Antonio grins. “You remember that time in Czechoslovakia?”

Gilbert’s grin is wide and dangerous. “Hell yeah, of _course_ I remember Czechoslovakia.”

“Do I want to know?” Eliza looks concerned.

“Nope,” Antonio and Gilbert say in unison.

Roderich peers over the top of his book to stare back and forth between Gilbert and Antonio, eyes narrowed. “You two are planning something.”

They shoot each other matching grins.

“No, nothing like that,” Antonio says. “Just remembering some good times.”

“Wasn’t it a Czechoslovakian specialty?” Gilbert asks. “How’d you track it down? It’s been decades since Czechoslovakia was a thing.”

“Doesn’t mean their alcohol has changed,” Antonio replies. “Can’t lose a national pastime, can they?”

The doorbell rings – and then the front door opens. There’s the sound of angry Italian, followed by a few choice words that Gilbert can recognize in almost any languages. Feliciano comes tearing out of the kitchen to throw himself on top of the newest arrival – his brother.

Though he can’t say he’s fully please to see the other little Italian, Gilbert has to admit that Lovino’s snark brings some fun to the dinner table. It’s nice to know that he won’t be the only sarcastic asshole tonight – _especially_ if they’re planning on getting drunk.

“Get off me, wurst-for-brains,” Lovino snaps. “I’m not drunk enough for this touchy-feely bullshit.”

Feliciano complies, but his smile doesn’t dim. “I missed you, fratello! What have you been doing since I left?”

Lovino glares at him in a way that makes Gilbert think he’s not actually pissed off. “You’ve only been gone one day! I haven’t burned the house down, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Feliciano laughs. “Of course not! You’re too good of a chef to do that.”

Lovino’s cheeks redden. “Shut up!” But he’s definitely pleased.

Ludwig chooses that moment to appear, and Lovino’s good mood goes out the window. He scowls and turns his head away. Feliciano notices the change and takes a step toward him, but Lovino shoots him a sharp glare and he steps back. Ludwig walks over to stand beside Feliciano, a hand on the little Italian’s shoulders.

“Welcome, Lovino,” he says, gruff. “We are all pleased you could be here.”

“As if,” Lovino scoffs. He opens his mouth to say something – and then his eyes dart over to Antonio, who’s been staring at him for the last few minutes with a pained half-smile, and his cheeks go bright red. He shoves his bag into Feliciano’s arms and stomps into the kitchen, shoulders tensed in a way that makes his displeasure obvious to everyone in the room – even poor, oblivious Antonio.

“Better luck next time,” Gilbert mutters to Antonio. The Spaniard shrugs and makes a pitiful attempt at a reassuring smile.

“We did not end things well, Lovino and I,” Antonio whispers. “I fear he will not forgive me.”

He looks so heartbroken that Gilbert doesn’t have the heart to tease him. Instead, he gives him an awkward one-arm hug and tousles his hair.

“Head up,” he says.

Antonio smiles at the reference and returns Gilbert’s hug with enthusiasm. “You’re a good amigo.”

“Wish I could have been a better one,” Gilbert whispers before he can stop himself.

“Gilbert!” Antonio slaps his arm – it’s playful and light, but it makes Gilbert cringe. “Don’t say that! You’ve been a great friend to me, better than I ever could have asked for. You’ve had it rough for a while, but don’t lose heart. Head up, remember?”

Gilbert smiles back, if only to reassure Antonio. He doesn’t want to worry his friend – not tonight, not when everyone is together for once, to celebrate the good times and be happy – but he can feel his end drawing ever closer, and his time is running out. How can he tell Ludwig that his diaries are his way of saying goodbye? Of writing things down that he’s never been able to tell his friends?

He goes to stand up, but he never makes it to his feet.

Pain streaks through his lower back, down into his legs, and he can’t hold himself up. Momentum sends him keeling over, face-down onto the carpet. He barely – _barely_ – manages to save himself from slamming his face into the ground, but now his wrists hurt from where his hands met the carpet. Pain wracks his lower body; he can’t move, can’t think through the pain, can’t even register what’s going on around him.

Two sets of hands lift him into the air, and Gilbert starts to cry. His legs hurt where he’s being lifted, but that’s not even the worst of it. He’s weak, so weak, and to be seen like this in front of his friends, in front of _Roderich_ , is so shameful. Crying is only making it worse, but he can’t seem to stop the tears from spilling over his eyes and leaving wet streaks on his face.

He can tell, vaguely, that he’s being carried upstairs. The pain in his legs isn’t subsiding; it’s growing stronger by the moment, and whoever’s holding him is making it worse. He opens his mouth to speak, but a hoarse croak is all that comes out.

And then he’s being set down in his bed. He can feel the comfort and softness of his sheets around him, can feel the coolness of his air conditioner.

“Gilbert, can you speak? Bruder?”

Ludwig, frantic. Gilbert wants to reassure him, tell him everything is going to be okay, but Gilbert is suddenly very, very sure that he’s dying. The pain isn’t going away like it normally does – it’s getting worse and worse, and there are black spots dancing around the edges of his vision. It feels like his legs are on _fire_.

“Gilbert?”

There’s Roderich. Gilbert wants to stop him, kick him out of the room. He can’t be seen like this, not by _Roderich_ of all people. He tries to speak, to tell Roderich to _go away_ , but all that comes out is this horrible high-pitched whine of pain. Ludwig’s right beside him, hands on his shoulders, and everything hurts. The spots dancing across his vision grow bigger, bigger, until his vision goes black and falls limp against his pillows and the world around him goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

Gilbert goes limp under his hands, and Ludwig’s never known panic quite like this before, never known helplessness like this before. Roderich is opposite him, trying to rouse Gilbert with gentle shakes and pleading words, but Gilbert isn’t waking up. Nothing is waking him up, and Ludwig can’t breathe. He’s still breathing – Ludwig can see the minute rise and fall of his chest, can hear the shallow rasps of breath – but he’s unresponsive, unable to open his eyes and promise Ludwig that he’s okay, that he’s not dying yet. Panic crawls so far up his throat that Ludwig thinks, just for a moment, that he’s going to be sick, but he pushes it down. He can’t – _can’t_ – lose it in front of all these people. He needs to be strong for his brother.

Feliciano’s hovering at Ludwig’s side, wringing his hands together and looking so out of place that it tugs at Ludwig’s heart.

“Roderich,” he murmurs, in a voice as rough as sandpaper. Then, louder, “Roderich!”

The Austrian stops and looks up. Cheeks flushed, glasses askew, panic obvious in violet eyes – and Ludwig hates himself for saying this, but _someone_ needs to say it, needs to get it out in the open before they suffocate under the weight of it.

“I think he’s dying.”

His voice sounds hollow, even to himself, and Feliciano’s sharp intake of breath makes him feel weak in the knees. Grabs the headboard for support and takes a deep breath.

“We need a doctor. A – a nation doctor, one that knows about us and can help.” He looks up, eyes wide.

“I will make the call,” Elizaveta’s voice calls from the doorway. “You stay with him.” She ushers a wide-eyed Spaniard and grumbling Southern Italian from the room as she leaves, and Ludwig has never been so grateful for her ability to stay calm during crises.

A small hand slips into his and squeezes it tight. Feliciano leans into his side, offering strength where Ludwig needs it most. Lets go of the headboard and leans into the Italian, letting Feliciano’s warmth comfort him.

“Come on, Luddy,” Feliciano murmurs. He nudges Ludwig over to the chair in the corner, until Ludwig stumbles into it. Then Feliciano’s right there, climbing into Ludwig’s lap and settling himself against Ludwig’s chest, taking up all his space and comforting him all at once. His hands flutter at his sides for a few moments, unsure what to do, before Feliciano sighs and takes Ludwig’s hands. Wraps them around his own waist and just leans back into Ludwig and breathes, exaggerated deep breaths, until Ludwig realizes that he’s hyperventilating. Tries to slow his breathing to match Feliciano’s – and tries to pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Feliciano murmurs _that’s good, you’re doing so good_ against his shoulder.

It takes an eternity for Elizaveta to return, an eternity of murmured comfort and deep breaths. She still looks put-together, calm as anything, but her eyes are tight at the corners and she can’t keep her hands still – the only signs of her panic.

“There is a doctor on the way,” she says, and the whole room breathes a sigh of relief. Roderich slumps against the wall, still at Gilbert’s side, and his eyes flutter closed. Elizaveta walks over to him and takes him in her arms, and – and Roderich just _collapses_ against her, all the strength going out of him in one rush of air. But her strength never wavers; she just holds him up and murmurs consolations too soft for Ludwig to hear.

“What if he doesn’t make it?” Ludwig’s voice is rough with unshed tears.

Feliciano tucks himself closer to Ludwig’s chest and murmurs against his neck, “He’s strong. He’ll make it.”

The ghost of Feliciano’s breath against his skin makes him shiver. He leans his head down, presses his cheek against the top of Feliciano’s head, and tries to fight down the panic that threatens to claw its way back up his throat.

“Just keep breathing, Luddy. Everything will be okay.”

Ludwig’s never been more grateful to have Feliciano in his life. He can hardly remember those long-ago years where he would’ve done anything to send Feliciano back to Italy. Seems so distant, so unimportant when he has his best friend curled up against him.

An hour goes by slowly, drags every excruciating minute out until Ludwig’s tense to the point of shaking. Across the room, Roderich is fast asleep, curled on the floor with his head on Elizaveta’s lap. Elizaveta’s fingers comb through his hair as she stares at a spot on the wall, eyes drooped. Feliciano, asleep against Ludwig’s chest, stirs and bats his eyes open.

“Luddy,” he mumbles, voice sleep-thick, “you’re tense.”

“Go back to sleep,” Ludwig whispers.

“No.” Feliciano half rolls out of Ludwig’s lap and stumbles to his feet. A yawn cracks open his jaw.

“Feliciano,” he manages to get out before the Italian shushes him.

“I’m going to help you,” Feliciano whispers. He sneaks behind Ludwig’s chair and puts his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders. Ludwig tenses, opens his mouth to ask Feliciano what he intends to do – and then Feliciano’s fingers dig into the knots in his shoulders and he has to stifle a yelp of pain. Starts to pull away, but the relief that cuts through him is so intense, so unexpected, that he leans back into Feliciano’s gentle hands.

“That’s it, Luddy,” Feliciano murmurs in his ear. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

Ludwig can’t remember the last time he ever let anyone take care of him. Gilbert used to, years ago, but roles reversed when the Prussian state went into decline before Hitler’s war. And he’s always been the one to take care of Feliciano, always been the one to get him out of trouble. No, he can’t remember the last time he’d ever _needed_ to be taken care of, but this – Feliciano’s hands roaming over his shoulders, working out all the knots he’s accumulated over the last few decades – this is something he could get used to. Slumps against the back of the chair, head tilted down, and just lets Feliciano take care of him. It feels _good_ , better than expected, and Ludwig’s not sure he’ll ever want to move from this spot.

“Good, Luddy,” Feliciano whispers. “That’s good. Relax, just like that.” His fingers stop and Ludwig groans softly, but then Feliciano’s right there in front of him, climbing into his lap again, and Ludwig bites back the complaint on his lips. He sinks lower into the chair as Feliciano curls up against him, gentle fingers playing with the ends of his hair against his neck. He’s so tired, suddenly; he can feel the exhaustion seeping through his bones and dragging his eyelids closed. Leans his head to the side, tilted so that Feliciano can reach more of his hair, and falls asleep.

 

Roderich starts awake when Eliza shifts her leg.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “My back is starting to hurt.”

He pushes himself into a sitting position. Eliza arches her back, stretching out all the stiff points, and then leans into Roderich’s side.

“He’s a son-of-a-bitch,” she mumbles, face pressed against his shoulder, “but I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Don’t think like that.” He feels like a hypocrite for even saying the words. It’s all he can think about, all he can concentrate on. _What if_. “Gilbert will wake up.” The promise is hollow, though, and they both know it.

The doorbell makes them both jump, and Roderich’s heart leaps into his throat. A doctor will surely be able to help them, will be able to make Gil open his eyes. He glances across the room – surely Ludwig would want to go let the doctor in? – but Ludwig’s fast asleep in Gilbert’s old recliner, Feliciano curled up on his lap. Feliciano looks half asleep himself, but he shakes himself awake every few moments.

“I’ll get it,” Eliza mutters. She extracts herself from Roderich’s side and disappears through the open doorway.

He can hear murmured voices downstairs, softly spoken words in Antonio and Lovino’s voices. Can’t make out what they’re saying, but Eliza’s hushes them before Roderich can sneak closer to the door to eavesdrop. There are a few moments of silence, and then Eliza’s footsteps, plus another’s, tread back up the stairs. Roderich jumps up and smooths out his wrinkled clothes.

Ludwig still hasn’t stirred, but Feliciano’s watching as the doctor enters the room, closely followed by Elizaveta. The doctor is a woman, somewhere in her fifties, with cropped hair and a steely expression.

“This is Doctor Lemaire,” Eliza introduces.

“I presume this is the patient?” Dr. Lemaire asks with a cursory glance at Gilbert. “Nation?”

“Prussia.” Roderich steps forward. “Dissolved, obviously, but somehow still alive.”

“I see.” She approaches the bed. “How did he come to be this way?”

“He collapsed. I – none of us are really sure what happened. His brother might be better able to explain.”

Feliciano nods at Roderich. Gently prods Ludwig, whispers words too quiet for anyone else to hear. Ludwig’s eyes open slowly, and Roderich nearly flinches at the exhaustion in them. He snaps to attention once he notices the doctor, and Feliciano scrambles out of his way as he stands up.

“Doctor Lemaire, this is Ludwig Beilschmidt,” Eliza says.

Ludwig holds out a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”

“Likewise.” She shakes the offered hand. “Brother, you said? You must be Germany, then, right?”

“Correct. Is there any way I can assist you?” Ludwig’s eyes are wide and alert, all traces of exhaustion gone. Roderich spares a moment to marvel at his ability to be so alert so quickly, before allowing Eliza to nudge him out of the room.

“Gilbert wouldn’t want us to know his private medical stuff,” Eliza whispers in the hallway. She closes the door behind them. “Do you think Ludwig will mind if we crash in one of his guest rooms?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just barges into one of the empty guest rooms and closes the door behind them.

“Eliza?” He’s confused, still half-asleep, still stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor.

“You’re exhausted.” Her face softens. “Ludwig and the doctor will take care of Gilbert. In here, we can rest and stay out of their way.”

Roderich nods. Steps forward, hesitates – until Eliza nudges him forward, nudges him down onto the bed. He kicks off his shoes, lets his belt fall to the floor, untucks his shirt, loosens his cravat. Eliza tugs him down by his shoulders, until they’re side by side, facing each other.

“He’ll be okay,” Eliza whispers.

He closes his eyes. Doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want Eliza to see him cry. Gilbert’s on the verge of death, and even though Roderich has known for years that it would happen eventually, he’s still no prepared for it. Can’t imagine a world without Gilbert’s crass humor, without his uncanny ability to understand Roderich’s heart and mind, without his startling crimson eyes. He’s never been able to admit it, not even to himself, but he’s always enjoyed Gilbert’s company, always enjoyed having him around, even when the interruptions were less than desired. Gilbert has just always _been there_ , to the point where Roderich can’t remember a time without him. They’ve been so many things over the centuries – enemies, allies, friends, lovers – that it hurts to imagine a world where Gilbert isn’t alive.

“Stop thinking.” Eliza’s voice, soft and gentle, breaks into his melancholy thoughts. “You have to believe that everything is going to be okay.”

“He can’t die, Lizzy,” Roderich whispers.

“That’s just it.” Eliza’s voice is sad, and Roderich doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know that she’s crying. “He’s mortal now, Roderich. He _can_ die.”

“Don’t say that. He can’t die, Lizzy, he _can’t_.”

“There’s no point in denying it! You can’t hide from the truth anymore, not when he needs you now more than ever. How do you think Gil feels about dying?”

“Lizzy, stop.” Silent tears roll down his cheeks. His hands are shaking; he presses them against his stomach.

“No, Roderich, _you_ stop. You’ve spent the last decade pretending like you haven’t been watching him get weaker and weaker. You’ve been ignoring all the signs, and I’m not going to let you anymore. He’s _dying_ , Roderich, and some day he’ll be dead. And then it’ll be too late to tell him all the things that you’re too afraid to say out loud.”

Roderich rolls out of the bed, tears flowing fast. He ignores Eliza’s protest as he shoves his shoes back on, buckles his belt, and hastily tucks his shirt back into his pants.

“Roderich –”

“No, Eliza.” He doesn’t even look at her. “I would prefer not to be yelled at right now.” He whips open the door, but can’t bring himself to slam it as he leaves.

Gilbert’s door is still closed. He hovers in the hallway for a few painful moments, half-hoping that Eliza will come after him to apologize, but when it’s clear that she isn’t, he makes his way downstairs. Antonio and Lovino are camped out on the couch, cutting down monsters on one of Gilbert’s many gaming systems.

Antonio perks up when he sees Roderich. “Any news?”

Roderich shakes his head. “I left to give Gilbert his privacy. The doctor is still in with Ludwig.”

Antonio slumps back against the couch. “I can’t believe this is happening. He’s survived for so long – why now? Why all of a sudden?”

“Who knows?” Roderich settles into a recliner, twisting his loosened cravat between his fingers. “We’ve never had a nation end like this. No one really knows what to expect.”

“Why did they have to do this? What did Gilbert ever do to them?” Antonio’s angry now. “Why did they have to sentence him to death like this?”

“It’s in the past. There’s no use fretting about it now.” Roderich sighs. “It’s not like they can give him back his nation now. It’s – the land that once was Prussia is so fragmented, so completely controlled by other nations.”

“I know.” Antonio draws his knees up to his chest. Lovino’s still focused on the game, focused on ignoring Roderich, but Antonio’s controller lays forgotten on the floor. Roderich aches to give Antonio some kind of comfort – but how can he, when he can’t even comfort himself? And it’s worse, with Antonio. The two of them have been best friends for as long as Roderich can remember. They’ve never hated each other, not even when their nations were on opposite sides of a battlefield. Roderich can’t even say that. He and Gilbert made their livings out of hating each other, sometimes, and he can’t even pretend that their antagonism wasn’t real. They’ve beaten and bruised each other so much over the centuries that it’s a wonder the two of them don’t hate each other still.

“Oi, bastard, you’re making me lose,” Lovino snaps – rudely, Roderich notes. Antonio mumbles an apology, snatches up his controller, and rejoins the fight. Roderich settles back into the recliner. He’s never enjoyed video games, but suddenly the mindless gaming seems like the perfect escape from a reality that he wishes would end.

“So, how do you play?”

 

There’s no hope left in Ludwig’s eyes by the time the doctor leaves. Feliciano crowds against his side, trying to bring him some measure of comfort, but he’s at a loss for words, for actions, for anything that could make Ludwig feel better.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor Lemaire says in the doorway. “I really wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Is there no hope?” Ludwig’s voice is a whisper of its usual strength.

Doctor Lemaire shakes her head. “Without a nation to sustain him, there’s nothing to make him immortal. He will deteriorate. I can’t predict the rate – it could be a few days, it could be a few months – but I do not think he’ll live to see a new year.”

Ludwig nods. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“It was no problem.” The doctor offers a small smile. “I can see myself out. I am sure you wish to remain at your brother’s side.”

“Ja.” Ludwig rubs a hand over his face. “Thank you, Doctor Lemaire.”

“Au revoir, Allemagne.”

She leaves, and Feliciano crowds up against Ludwig. Can feel the German man shaking, and – Ludwig never shakes, never lets on how scared or upset he is, and it’s so out of the ordinary that Feliciano doesn’t know what to do. He’s used to taking care of Ludwig in all the little subtle ways – making too much pasta so that Ludwig will have leftovers to eat after long nights at the office, accidentally spilling his late-night coffee so that he’ll have to get some sleep, being cheerful enough to counteract whatever melancholy thoughts he has – but he’s never had to be so obvious about his tactics before today, before Gilbert’s collapse.

“Luddy,” he whispers, crowded up against Ludwig’s chest, “you should get some sleep.”

“Nein.” Ludwig’s slipped back into German – a habit that Feliciano knows very well, knows that it only happens when Ludwig’s _really_ upset about something. The rest of his words are in German, and Feliciano doesn’t know enough to translate it but the sentiment is there – Ludwig doesn’t want to leave Gilbert’s bedside. But his arms slip around Feliciano’s waist and hug him close, like he can’t stand on his own anymore.

“Luddy, please.” He grabs two fistfuls of Ludwig’s shirt and tugs him toward the open door. On any other day, it would be impossible for him to budge Ludwig – but the German goes with him, this time.

“Feliciano, I can’t.”

“You _can_. Please. Do it for me.”

Ludwig sighs. “Alright. But only for a little while.”

Feliciano smiles. It’s a small victory, but he’s sure he has ways to keep Ludwig in bed long past the two hours of sleep he probably intends to get. Keeps ahold of Ludwig’s shirt as he tugs him down the hallway, into Ludwig’s room. Sheds his shoes, jeans, and shirt easily, and even folds them up nicely on a chair like Ludwig does. Waits for the German to do the same and then –

“Let me finish your massage.”

Ludwig, sitting on the edge of the bed, just stares at him for the longest moment, until Feliciano starts to feel like he’s crossed a line. But then Ludwig scrubs a hand over his face and nods once, and Feliciano feels his stomach do a somersault.

“Lay on your stomach,” he says. Thinks a small prayer for his voice and hands to not shake – Ludwig’s bare back is broad and muscular, and Feliciano’s cheeks are already heating up. Sits on the edge of the bed next to Ludwig and takes a deep, slow breath. Cracks his knuckles – and then he goes to works. He’s damn good at giving massages and he knows it – a talent learned from Francis, many years ago, one that’s served him well over the years. Can feel Ludwig melting under his touch – can hear him, too, little soft sighs and groans of relief as Feliciano works out all the tension. He’s half hard in his boxers, unable to pull his hands away from Ludwig’s smooth skin. Internally, he chastises himself – now is _not_ the time to be thinking of his stupid infatuation with his best friend.

He’s not sure how long it takes, but eventually Ludwig is limp under his fingers, eyes lidded and glazed with exhaustion. Feliciano climbs over him and curls up with his back to Ludwig, blankets folded discreetly over his waist. Ludwig rolls onto his side and curls forward, one hand on Feliciano’s side to pull him closer. He settles in, warm and comfortable, and just listens to the sound of Ludwig’s breathing as he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
